


Healing Tears

by TPride



Series: In Conversation [4]
Category: Sherlock - Fandom, johnlock? - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Warnings for death of the child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 04:31:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8607928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TPride/pseuds/TPride
Summary: Yes, there is a pun in the title.





	

Mary was gone, the child hadn’t been John’s, and had died, looking so tiny in a hospital bed, while John stood helpless above her, looking down at the little life, knowing that his own would end shortly, if he didn’t open up, finally, about what he needed in it, to make any kind of sense of it.

His daughter’s death, even if she wasn’t biologically his, was hard to bear. But to move, finally, from that death bed to the one in the adult ward that held Sherlock, straitjacketed and off on his rockers, completely gone in the aftermath of crashing, again, from being shot in the chest – something he had never recovered from, even while Mary’s belly grew and grew, until she gave birth, early, to what should have been their little daughter, but was not.

She hadn’t known he’d checked their daughter for paternity at birth. She’d been too busy with the birthing itself, and that had been the single blessing of that day. What John had learnt in the aftermath had been too painful to contemplate on any ordinary day. And so, standing guard over his daughter’s too large hospital bed, had been the right place to think about the rest of his life.

Like the fact that Sherlock’s life hung in the balance too – and that the moment his ‘daughter’ was gone he could finally go to him. Be with him, stay with him – to whatever end. Because that would be the end, for him as well.

So he wasn’t surprised when Mycroft met him outside the room of their little baby, and didn’t speak, except to mutter condolences, and then led John to the parking basement, where they entered the anonymous looking car, and drove off, away into London, to whatever special clinic now held Sherlock’s recovering body, and quite likely his parents as well.

Mycroft didn’t introduce them, merely spoke briefly to John’s loss, and then John sank down onto a chair next to his straitjacketed friend. There was no free hand to touch, so he patted the man’s hair, like he never had before, and told him he was there. That Mary was gone, and the baby was gone too. The parents eventually got up and left, no doubt to sleep. Nurses and doctors looked in, checking the vital signs of someone in the throes of a full on melt down, due to a cocktail of opiates, that had been designed to kill him, after the most extensive high ever. The violent episodes had been frequent, now they were not, the attending told him. They could not account for the difference. They merely knew that Sherlock was still alive, still fighting to be alive, for some reason.

John didn’t have any hope left. He barely had life left to him. Physically he was well, walked about stretching his leg, and curling and unfurling his left hand from time to time, doing his exercises. Mrs Holmes came in while he was in his undershirt, doing a series of them, and looked, but said nothing. She suggested he take a shower to freshen up. “Mycroft has arranged a change for you.” She didn’t suggest he sleep. Maybe she knew.

John didn’t question it – looking outside he was handed a bag, one of his, with a shaving kit and fresh clothes. He made use of the hospital appointed en-suite, and redressed he felt much refreshed, and rejoined his friend, sitting vigil at his bedside, beyond hope now, too drained of everything to even want to hope any longer.

If Sherlock woke, then so be it. If he did not – then so be it also. His gun was still back at Baker Street, but he didn’t need it. This was a hospital, and he was a doctor. There would be plenty of opportunities to make sure he didn’t overstay his welcome – if Sherlock chose to leave, permanently.

 

It took days, but Sherlock made it. It took weeks, but John was there to bring him home from the rehabilitation facility where he had tormented everyone else with his accurate descriptions of how they were doing and their likely progress. John had gotten so angry at one point that he had retaliated, with the exact state of Sherlock’s situation, and his likely progress – slow, bordering on miniscule! It had shut Sherlock up for a little while, and allowed John enough remorse that he took time off to go sleep. Because it just couldn’t get any worse.

Two days later the head doctor told him that they’d seen a marked improvement in all their patients. That having their actual situation thrown in their faces so baldly had made all of them, without exception, pick up on wanting to do better. Sherlock – was finally better as well, and he met John with a small tremulous smile. John had exhaled, and become the professional, concerned friend he was, had been, for years now, shutting away everything else.

Bringing Sherlock home to Baker Street had been a victory. But it had left John feeling hollow as he climbed back up the stairs to his own room.

He had organised a baby alarm, and lay listening to it for the longest time, without being able to sleep.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice spoke to him from it.

John got up, put on a robe, and went down there, walking at a normal pace, doing his normal duty – looking after his friend.

“Painkiller?” He asked with a fresh glass of water to hand.

“I can’t sleep.” Sherlock replied.

“Well, that’s not – “ John stopped himself. It shouldn’t surprise him, didn’t, really. After all, when did Sherlock ever sleep? “Why not?” He managed to ask, and settling down on the edge of the wide bed looked his friend over.

“I miss you.” Sherlock told him then.

“I’m right here.”

"No. Not you the doctor – John, my friend. My John!” Sherlock replied.

John didn’t know what to answer, how to answer. So he moved around, sitting up on the bed, then lying down on it, next to Sherlock. Sherlock tugged at the bed-pane underneath him, and John moved off it so Sherlock could cocoon himself in it. Only for Sherlock to extend it so John could lie under it, next to Sherlock’s lightly clad body.

John settled down, head on the extra cushion, and before he knew it, he was asleep. When he woke, it was light outside – and Sherlock was next to him – sleeping peacefully. John slipped from the bed as quietly as possible, used the bathroom, and started breakfast.

“John?”

“Tea?” John asked, bringing a mug.

“You!” Sherlock replied, and John handed over the mug, sat on the bed, but didn’t move any further.

“I’m not awake yet. This is just an impression of it.” He admitted.

Sherlock smiled and sipped his tea. John sat for a moment, then went to fetch his own mug, returning to the bed, snuggling under the bed pane again, and sitting there, against the headboard of Sherlock’s bed. He set down his mug, and Sherlock set down his.

“John.”

It took forever for him to turn his face towards Sherlock. A Sherlock who had moved, slowly, to sit up, next to him. But when he did, he saw so much more than he had ever dared hope for – and it was followed by a kiss.

 

There was sex, but it was more the careful groping of gentle lovers, than the heated needy grasping they probably both desired. John wasn’t able to think about it. This – this was it. This was the moment his heart healed or broke, for good.

And after, sweet words whispered that meant nothing – sweet nothings – John felt himself be half embraced by Sherlock and lay there, relishing what he had thought could never be. Or at least telling himself he was relishing it. Because he couldn't feel – anything.

“John?” Sherlock asked at length, and only then did John realise that his cheeks were wet, that his eyes were haemorrhaging tears.

He looked up at Sherlock, half leaning over him, and then Sherlock leant down and kissed him, a warm kiss, of soft lips, with a mouth that opened against his, opening him up to the reality of their new lease on life: together.

And while John Watson wrapped his arms around Sherlock Holmes, inside his chest, his torn heart finally healed up.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, there is a pun in the title.


End file.
